The Adventures of Brom and Jeod
by awilla the hun
Summary: Eragon's two grumpy old men set out on a ramble to explore the world of Alagesia! Set twenty years or so before Eragon, with a few familiar faces turning up. This will hopefully evoke Bill Bryson, but probably won't...
1. The Quest Begins

This is utterly uncanonical in terms of character portrayal, but it didn't say anywhere that Joed wasn't from Dras Leona. And this website needs humour about Eragon of a non parodic nature, that isn't about "Eragon's night out", and isn't how to annoy character X. So lets get to it.

I come from Dras Leona. Someone had to.

When you come from Dras Leona, you either end up going along with the system and trading slaves, or ranting and trying to be different, and then trading slaves. On Helgrind, I believe that there is a sign which says "Welcome to Dras Leona. Here your life ends." Actually there isn't. I just made that up. But the place does get a hold on you. For Dras Leona is the greatest depressant known to man. You get up, look at the plains, go to work, look at the plains, come back, look out of your window at the plains, and then die, looking at the plains. This does not help to bring about a life of great vibrant ness or activity. Indeed, I hear of some people who, upon arriving on business, regularly remain there forever, having forgotten to buy their stock. This, as this is Dras Leona, is somewhat unlikely. Excuses to get out are fairly high on the list of most sentient beings.

I for one decided not to suffer this fate, so I decided to travel. And to chronicle my travels for those less fortunate types in Dras Leona. In Dras Leona, you are either constantly alcoholic, or constantly angry. Any alleviation from this depression would be useful. Admittedly, the slaves probably couldn't read, but still.

In this endeavour, I enlisted the aid of my good friend Brom. Brom, as the more terrorist minded of my readers would know, was a dragon rider of some repute, and would doubtless be helpful in finding my way around the Empire and beyond. He was a most resourceful man in pretty much every way imaginable, but he had his flaws.

One of these was a certain tendency towards alcoholism. I found him drinking himself to a standstill in the Golden Globe inn, which doesn't really say much for his taste in drink either. I sidestepped a couple of bodies on the floor, skilfully ducked under a thrown knife and strode purposefully over to him. "Good evening Brom," I said, sitting gingerly down on a bar stool. He glared balefully back at me over a foaming beer tankard.

"She's dead," he said.

"Who?" says I.

"Saphira. The bitch is dead!" said he.

"Oh, that must be awful," I said sorrowfully. And then, more tentatively, "It's been about eighty years, hasn't it?"

"Yes. But it's so awful!" This appears to be, according to the great philosophers say we should treat grief, so I maintained a tactful silence. "All those long years ago, with his sword in her…" he took another gulp before carrying on.

This didn't bode well for my grand outing. This would require an immense amount of coaxing and appealing to his superior nature. Of course, when those methods failed I gave him twenty crowns, and he went along with the adventure just fine.

The second problem was convincing Helen that she would let me gallivant off around Alagesia with a complete stranger. "I mean, what do you two even have in common?" she asked over the kitchen table. "He's a dirty, drink sodden-" she indicated our good rider, now merrily downing five bottles of our best Belatonan white- "old man! How could you possibly get along?"

"Relax, dear, it'll be great!" I replied. "We'll talk about lumbagos and middle aged moments, and then one of us will forget who started talking and the conversation will begin again!"

"It'll be hell," my wife said simply.

"I know," I replied, before packing my kit. It could be said that, when we set off next morning, this was when Jeod-Helen affairs started to head downhill.

We set off early, myself thrilled to be out on the road, Brom with his head wrapped up in a towel dipped in cold water. Our enthusiasm soon diminished when I realised just how much a respectable traveller had to carry. About forty pounds of weight and the pack bit into my shoulders, especially when the sun began to glare down on the heat soaked plains. I therefore chucked most of it out.

Brom was still a better walker than I, and was waiting four miles down the road when I caught up. "What kept you?" he asked meanly.

"I had to throw a few things out," I replied through gritted teeth. "The pack was heavy."

"What did you throw our?" Brom asked, in a concerned tone.

"Oh, not the useful stuff. Just spare boots, extra blankets, winter clothing, bread, sausage, the mallet, half the tent pegs." It seemed sensible at the time.

"The tent pegs weren't that heavy," Brom said, reaching for his sword and an expression of ill concealed fury building on his hungover face.

"I know, but they just made satisfying throwing. And I bought something to eat." I produced a large box containing pickled figs. "It can't be that bad."

Our first lunch stop resulted in the large box being chucked in a lake, where I understand it gave birth to two hooded beings. Last time I looked, they had had two children, and were merrily chasing a farm boy up and down the countryside. Which just goes to show.

But at this point, utterly oblivious to the significance of the figs, we decided to continue our long ramble north. After finding a serviceable coaching inn, we proceeded to get pissed beyond our wildest imagings. The next day, we had picked up a new friend.

She was called Angela. "Hi!" she said, cheerily leaping over our comatose forms. "How ya doing?"

Brom seemed to think for a moment that this was all a horrific dream, or that the gods had punished him. This was augmented by the lady ruffling his hair and showing us all that she was a comedian of some esteem.

"Here's one. Knock knock!"

"Who's there?" I muttered, pondering the futility of life, my hangover, and what Angela's head would look like with a poker sticking out of it.

"Paolini."

"Paolini who?"

At this point, she mentions the great deity of our world, who appears to make even the most illogical and contrived occurrences become real and whole, so I will stop now. Suffice to say that he is much maligned by other gods (mostly due to envy) and ranks highly in the world stage of such things.

We set forth, grumbling, and determined to put as much distance between ourselves and Angela's knock knock jokes as possible. The roads were good ones, and we believed ourselves to be used to this sort of thing. But Angela still chirpily kept pace.

By dinner time, I believe that Brom was strongly considering inflicting grievous bodily harm upon Angela. This was especially after an incident around four in the afternoon on the same day.

We had managed to put some distance between ourselves and Angela (she had gotten mugged by an enterprising young lad who had taken offence at her wit) and had obtained some exotic cakes.

"You know," Brom said, "I'm not going to eat this. I want to savour it." He set it on the table before him. He sniffed deeply. I sniffed deeply. It was delicious. Especially after a diet of demon producing pickled figs. "And then," he went on, "I want to admire every creamy inch of its body. I want to write a crappy elven poem- like the ones I regularly trot out to hopeful riders- about it. Then, I will open wide, and let it melt for a moment in my mouth, and then bite down…"

"Say, is that a cake? Gee, I could sure use one!" Angela swallowed it in one gulp, made another "hilarious" anecdote, and then set off again.

Neither of us spoke. Brom made a strange strangling motion in the air, and then stood and followed Angela.

"You know, Longshanks," he said as we ate our forlorn dinner, listening this time to a song Angela was singing alongside a farmyard tabby she had found and believed magical- "we should get the hell away from here. Fast, and I mean really fast!"

I nodded grimly. Angela was without a doubt one of the least savoury people it was possible to have with you in a grand boys' outing. "So, how do you propose to achieve this, my dear rider? We can't just walk away at midnight and leave her, surely?"

Brom nodded.

"But she has one of our tents!"

"Well," he said, "I had another plan."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It involved hanging her from a tree, after magicing her to death first." There was a psychopathic glint in the old man's eye, which I found less than assuring.

We set off pretty quickly after that.


	2. From Ellesmera With Love

Well, I have been literally inundated by a review from a Thorn-The-Fastidious-Witch. She writes to explain how she enjoyed reading the story, and that more people will review soon. Hint hint. My method to get such things is to add another chapter, and keep this at the top of the list.

She evidently didn't realise how much I took from Bill Bryson. Did I type that out loud?

Du Weldenvarden, I discovered, really was a wonderful place. The trees are truly some of the most beautiful things ever crafted- "sang" is what they call it- by mortal hands. Much the same could be said about most things- the weather, weaponry, artwork, poetry, food. (On second thoughts, maybe not the last two. A diet of berries and eggs is all well and good, but meat eating is a damn sight better. And the poetry seems to be written by fourteen year old semi literates with angst problems. But I digress.) The sunsets were simply gorgeous to behold, and everything seemed to be delicately crafted and handmade especially for your enjoyment. Even the latrines were elegant.

The same couldn't be said for the people, however.

My first impression of the elven people was somewhat unfortunate. One moment, Brom and I were walking through the forest, the next we had swords digging into our necks.

"STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!" a musical voice whispered in the ancient language. "PUT YOUR ARMS IN THE AIR!" said another.

We did so, and our assailants stepped out in front of us. Both were clad in autumnal colours, and both had pointed ears. Both also gripped large and dangerous looking swords aggressively. They were also holding hands. I began to regret ever making the decision to try and hike to Du Weldenvarden. It seemed that we were about to be killed by two gay watchmen. Neither of us could stand the shame.

"Prepare to die, foolish mortals," one of them said. Damn. We were now about to be killed by two gay, clichéd watchmen.

Brom stuck up his middle finger in response. "Brom," I muttered desperately, "now is not the time to make obscene gestures! They have very big swords, and could probably rape us before the kill us!" The geriatric ignored me, and I prepared to die in as noble a manner as I could.

Both elves bowed in unison. "We apologise, Brom vohdr," one of them said politely. "May the stars watch over you."

"And you too, Nari," Brom said, and now I noticed the ring on his hand. He then began to talk to them with much gesticulation and pointing at me. The elves nodded gravely, and then led us to a river.

"What did you tell them?" I asked Brom as we stepped into the boat. Nari and Lifaen, as we later learned they were called, kissed once, and then started punting us to Du Weldenvarden.

"Well, I told them that you were the second lost rider. But they didn't believe me, so I told them that you were my retarded nephew who wanted to see something beautiful before he died." I was shocked at the time, but he apparently had the same trick used on him several years later in Teirm, so he got his just deserts for that one.

The boat remained quiet for several hours, and I began to appreciate my surroundings. True, Lifaen and Nari weren't exactly private about their activities, (if you get my drift) but I suppose that they were both alone in the wilderness for very long stretches of time, and they needed each other's company.

We reached Du Weldenvarden in good time, and we bade our erstwhile guides farewell, politely endured their embraces, and, as the common people say, hit the town.

There is nothing better after a long trail than sinking into a good, hot bath with the promise of good food later. I decided to do so, and was soon extremely appreciative of the elven plumbing system. After soaking for an hour or so, I ate at a popular elven tavern, and waited for Brom to meet me. He was probably drinking himself to a standstill somewhere, I thought, sipping my falneriv and answering various questions thrown at me by curious elven observers. No, it is not true that human beings started life as elven excrement, and grew owing to their tender care. Yes, this is a truly marvellous city. No, homosexuality is not universally encouraged in the Empire.

At this point, most of them looked subtly disappointed, and one particularly venerable looking fellow had a seizure. "We'll get you out of here, Oromis," someone muttered, and the poor fellow was soon carried out, dribbling blood down his front. It was at this point that Brom entered, and he looked somehow cheery.

"Evening, Longshanks," said he. "You look in a right state. Been turned down again?"

"Ha ha ha."

"You shouldn't try whores, Longshanks. They'll refuse you no matter how much they pay you."

"Brom," I asked wearily, "is there any reason for this particular bout of cheerful lewdity? It isn't like you." Indeed it wasn't. The old guy was often mournful, drunk, or mournful and drunk.

"Yep." He sat down at the table and grinned. "I picked up a girl today."

"Oh congratulations, Brom," I said. This was a mysterious development in Du Weldenvarden. All the elves looked like the Ubermenchen of old legend. What could they want with a poor old man?

"She's called Arya." Brom leered at the memory

"Brom, no one's called Arya, apart from…" I paused. "No."

"Hell yeah!" Oh dear god, I thought. It was the Elven princess. "And you know what, Longshanks? She has a really great body!"

"I should hope so."

"Of course," he went on, "it's hidden underneath about ten thousand points of bitchiness and a half inch of leather." Odd, considering these elves were vegetarians, I thought to myself. This didn't seem to count for royalty. "But that's all right. All I ask for is a decent set of-"I delete the next bit to avoid obscenity.

"Oh." There was nothing else to be said really. "How did you meet?"

"Well, I was just buying a new hat, and there she was nearby. Getting robes or something. Anyway, there I was, and I decided to jump in all drole like, you know? I just said something like 'Well, ma'm, you need to get some new robes for a new man. Like me.'"

"Oh Brom, the wit."

"It'll do in Du Weldenvarden. Anyway, we're going to meet outside the palace tonight."

"Well, good luck." And with that we both got some serious drinking in.

I was reclining in a rocking chair outside the tavern when Brom ran over to me, wild eyed and panting. "Arya had a boyfriend," he said, hurling himself behind my chair and looking for his sword."

"What?" I puffed on my pipe and cursed the oaf for ruining my evening of peace and tranquillity.

"I know! Two people willing to sleep with her, and both in the same town! We met, and there was this elf standing next to her gripping a sword and shouting at me." Well, three people if we're being technical, but one wouldn't be born for five years at this point in time.

"What did you do?"

"I ran!" Brom looked around feverishly. "He wasn't a magicing type, really. More a hack your balls off with a sword type. I froze him to the ground and got the hell away from him. So now he's looking for me! I need you to help me, Longshanks!"

"What should I do?" I asked. A good question in my mind.

"Some help you are." Brom retrieved his bow and arrows from the pack.

"Brom, I studied world history at university, not saving your ass in Ellesmera. If you wanted to know about democratic representation in the pre Galbatorixian era, I could be of more use to you." I puffed on my pipe, the picture of academic serenity. Brom seized his chance, and thrust the bow into my hands.

"Right, Longshanks. He comes looking, you shoot the bastard's face off. His name's Vanir, and you'll know him when you see him." The rider then bravely scuttled off to his room in the tavern.

"But-" I sighed, and then settled back into my chair. I had little skill with the bow myself, and taking an elf in single combat was about as hard as going naked to Urubaen with a petition for freeing slaves.

The tranquillity of the night was shattered by an uproarious cry of mingled anger, fury and rage. I stood to find an elf walking towards me with a furious strut. Like many of his kind, he was dressed in an autumnal tunic, and had black hair. He was only about four feet two in height. Goodness knows how Brom could have been scared of him, I thought. I slowly stood up in the chair.

"Greetings, friend," I said politely. The elf walked right up to me, just about reaching my chest. "What can I do for you?"

"You seen Brom?"

"I really couldn't say, my dear fellow," I said, with the polite tone one usually uses with a dangerously stupid man with a sword.

"Tall, white haired, lecherous. You seen him?" Vanir was sneering at me.

It was not very useful of him to describe someone as tall, I thought. He could probably be describing a dwarf, for all the difference it made. "No, sir, I have not," said I.

He stepped backwards and raised his fists threateningly. "You sure you haven't seen him, boy? I'll make your life a world of pain if you have."

I could probably take him, I thought, but he didn't seem to see through my lying. "No, I haven't," I said again. "And could you get a brain transplant or something? You, sir, have all the intelligence of a croquet hoop."

"What's that?" He blinked stupidly.

"Nothing."

"Well, it better had been nothing." Vanir turned and strutted off, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I understand that he groomed himself, grew about two feet, and got better manners over a period of about twenty years, just in time to take on Shadeslayer.

I knocked on Brom's door. "Who is it?" a preposterously deep and authoritative voice asked.

I sighed. "Vanir Haldthin. Prepare to be in pain, boy."

"Stop messing around, Longshanks," Brom said irritably. "When can we leave?"

"About now," I said cheerily.

"Good. I really want to leave the elven woods, Longshanks. Everyone's insane round here."

I wholeheartedly agreed, and we then set off to a small village called Carvahall, Brom looking over his shoulder the whole way. I mean, how bad could it be?


	3. A Disagreement

Well, I have now received another two reviews! And they were good! Which is more than can be said for my other Eragon fic. (shudders at sheer crapness of it.) There. That was me acknowledging the sheer crapness of it. Now then children, to writing…

There is very little that can be said about one's first impressions of Carvahall without copying the excellent _Shadeslayer: A Rider's Memoirs_. As a result, I shall not even begin to describe the vastness of the pine trees, the bleak and beautifulness of the snow, or the general niceness of finding civilization in the huge wilderness that is The Spine.

This was quite difficult to enjoy, however, with Brom as your travelling companion.

My rider friend, in addition to being constantly inebriated and irritable, was now permanently terrified of Vanir sneaking up on him. This led to one of us (usually-no, wait, always) me standing watch and listening to Brom's snores. And occasionally…

"Joed! Longshanks, you out there?"

"Yes," I would answer wearily. "What is it now, small child?"

"I think… that is, I think I heard something."

I rolled my eyes. "There it is again!" Brom said again, in a fearful tone.

"Brom," I said, "I cannot hear anything."

"Something's out there! Do something, gods damn it!" Brom would never give me any peace until I pretended to conduct a thorough search of the forest. This would involve me stamping up and down outside his tent for certain hours, and making the best impersonation I could muster of foliage scraping off my clothing. I usually dropped off to the sound of Brom's contented snores.

As a result of this, I was somewhat exhausted when we finally arrived, self irritable and tired, Brom singing an old rider's song (I, thankfully, forget the precise words) in Carvahall.

Now, before we continue, I would like to ask you a little question. If I was to tell you a story about a river going into a tunnel, would you A: Think that it was a conversation about nature, B: let me go on, or C: suspect that it was a pornographic metaphor.

If you answered C, you are the following: Probably deranged. Certainly lacking in the "interesting life" front. And most likely a resident of Carvahall.

We both strode into the aforementioned settlement of gloom and despondency, and, as ever, made a rush for the tavern. The Urgal horns on the door should have warned us, of course, but we just weren't being as careful as we should have been after Ellesmera. Brom made a dash for the taproom, and I looked around the place for a seat.

There was the normal chatter of a village going on around me. In the corner, a small, bald man was gaily discussing his latest "detergent" (no, I don't know what it is either for the butcher's shop he'd just started up. Another table was full of women discussing pregnancy.

"Of course," the honey blonde one was saying, "little Jimmy lasted twelve whole months in there before he came out!" There were general gasps and "you don't say"s around the table."

"Wasn't he stillborn?" one of the other women said.

I turned away from the ensuing scuffle. Mrs honey blonde now has two children, both of whom are fairly healthy.

This was better than I'd expected. I'd brought my rapier along to defend myself from bears, tigers, wildcats, dragons (I told you so!) and men with straw hats with about twenty generations of inbreeding and names like Cletus and Zeke and Sloan. But they were actually saying complex sentences!

But then another conversation came into earshot, which made my heart freeze itself to death on the spot and dive out of my chest. Brom reported similar sensations himself, but I think that this was owing to the weak bladder he had been developing.

"Yeah," the barman was saying, with an exceptionally well formed chin in his hand, "do you remember old miss Maniora?"

There was general consent around the bar, apart from a "Well, I sure don't!" which sounded strangely familiar. There was also a negative sounding meow.

"She had an incident with a horse," the barman went on. There was lewd laughter which suggested what sort of incident it was to even the most dimwitted of people.

"What was that?" the familiar voice asked.

"Well, missy," the barman said significantly, "do you know how big a horse's organ is?"

"Gee, I sure don't! Which organ?" I began to get an inkling of who this woman was, and began to look for an exit.

"About forty inches," the barman went on. "She died of it. Got goddamn torn in half."

More laughter. I looked at the bar in despair, and the new person turned around at the same time. At this point I completely lost faith in all humanity.

"Hello, Angela," said I, praying that she wouldn't recognise me.

She did. "It's you again!" she said gaily. She hadn't changed much. True, she now had some form of a walking stick with a spike driven through the end of it. "Jade, ain't it?"

"Joed," I said wearily.

"Well, Jade, it's great to meet you again! You were such a gen'leman on that last trip we had together!"

We were now attracting a lot of odd looks, mostly because no one could imagine any reason why anyone would spend any time with Angela up to and including being told that your family cat was being drowned, strangled, or drowned and strangled at the same time. Now, speaking of cats…

"Good to meet you Jade," a gravely voice said. I looked around the room.

"Yeah, it's me. The name's Solemnbum." The voice was coming from Angela's cat. It swigged another can of beer, and was currently smoking about four packets of Hedgemann's tobacco in one truly enormous pipe. "D'you have any beer on you?" The animal belched loudly. Brom appeared to have met his match.

He walked in a few seconds later. "Mornin', Longshanks!" he said cheerily. "Why the long face?" He then saw Angela. "Oh dear God," he said, taking a step towards the doorway.

Angela's loud greeting doesn't need to be described. Brom's spectacular tripping over an unenterprising stool, however, does. But I really can't be bothered to do so.

A barmaid helped him to his feet. She was, I noticed, quite astonishingly attractive. "Thank you, ma'm," Brom said. "Tell me, missy, what's your name?"

"Selena," she replied cheerfully. "What's yours, love?"

"Brom," said Brom, a look entering his eyes which I had learned to dread. "I don't expect that you've heard of me, but I am quite important."

She had. "Oh, you're that rider bloke, aren't you? Come and sit down, love. You really are in a state, aren't you?" Brom was guided to a chair, and treated to a whiskey. And another. Selena helped herself to one, too. Brom looked all solemn and heroic, telling many tall tales about his time as a rider. But when her back was turned, he turned to face me and mouthed:

"IN YOUR FACE, LONGSHANKS!!"

I didn't deign to reply, and instead turned belatedly back to the bar. Angela was now talking to the barman once again.

"You remember old Harmann?"

"I sure don't!"

"Well, you know that man with the horse?"

"Yep!"

"Well, Harmann got did like the guy with the horse. But…" the barman once again paused to let the significance of his legend wash over us all "it was with a dragon."

There was a round of applause.

Carvahall never really has improved in terms of advanced culture or intellect.

"Speaking of which," the barman went on, "we've got a rider coming! On a state visit! His name's Morzan, and he's apparently quite powerful." There was an awed silence from around the bar.

From this point on, I must inform you that this will strain many bounds of credibility. Events happen in certain conjunctions which may seem incredible to the naked eye. But it really did happen. All of it is entirely true. Regrettably.

"When's this Morzan chappie coming then?" someone asked.

"Right now," said a refined voice from the door.

We all turned to see a tall, dark, hooded silhouette at the door. The figure pulled back the hood to reveal a refined, elegant looking face, with well trimmed black hair. "Terribly sorry to interrupt your drinking, everyone," the figure said. "Oh, the name's zan. Morzan." Morzan laughed, and we all joined in. He was just such a great fellow.

Brom seemed to be trying to burrow into the Earth's crust to avoid him. He wriggled down his chair, and then jumped as Morzan turned to him.

"Brommie! It's been a long time," Morzan said, grinning broadly. I looked suspiciously at him. It appeared real.

"Hello there," Brom said, blushing furiously.

"What are you doing out here?" Morzan asked, as the entire pregnant women's discussion group swooned in pretty much precise unison. "A bit off the beaten track, isn't it? Ah, thank you." This was to the barman, who had just reverently given him a huge tankard of ale.

"Just doing my job, sir," the barman said modestly.

"Of course, of course," Morzan said, sitting at Brom's table. "D'you mind?"

"Saphira did," Brom said through gritted teeth.

"You have no idea how sorry I am about that," Morzan said, the emotion showing on his face. "I tried to make Galbatorix be lenient but… c'est la guerre, I suppose."

They nodded and turned to their ales. Morzan gave every appearance of being a decent sort of man, but I wasn't quite as sure. Everyone who served the king had a reputation of megalomania or being extremely power hungry, alongside a little bit of insanity and bloodlust. I watched them carefully.

"You still haven't told me why you're strolling around out here," Morzan was saying.

"Just a little walking tour," Brom replied. "Been babysitting my old pal Longshanks over there."

Babysitting indeed! I hoped that I'd get an opportunity to tell Morzan about Vanir.

"So, been babysat well?" Morzan asked me, as I sat at my lonely table.

"Actually, I found that it was quite the reverse," I began to say. But then Morzan noticed Selena.

"Who," he asked, "is that?"

Brom, extremely drunk at this point, mumbled something about "she's my girl."

Selena appeared to have a difference of opinion over the matter. "For no longer," she said, virtually leaping into Morzan's arms. He smiled apologetically, as if being leapt on by pretty barmaids just happened all the time to him, and rose to his feet.

"I am terribly sorry sir," he said to the barman, "but I think that I'll have to relieve you of this lovely lady's services."

The barman looked up sharply from his latest lewd story, this time about old Fred and the ducklings. "She's all yours," he muttered, and turned back to his crowd of onlookers.

Morzan smiled again, turned to the exit, and was tackled violently to the ground as Brom went for him with a broken bottle.

We have all heard of the epic duel between Brom and Morzan. Presumably, the bards didn't see fit to write about "The Pub Brawl of Brom and Morzan."

With a snarl, Morzan punched Brom in the face and gripped his bottle hand. Brom kicked Morzan in between the legs, and then in the face as it jerked forwards. Morzan headbutted Brom, and sent him sprawling into a huge pile of ale kegs, which were knocked over, scattering patrons and staff alike. He stood and laughed.

"Now," says he, " this will be remembered as they day that-"

Brom rugby tackled him down and started to bite him.

It was at this point that I found a good excuse to leave the tavern. "I'm sorry," says I to Angela, who was watching the fight with a mild sort of disinterest, "but my puppy just died, and my magic senses have just told me that I need to rescue him."

"Gee! You have magic?" she said, awestruck. "You know, despite my claims to magic, what I really do is just sell narcotics to unsuspecting farmboys and then just tell them that they've got a vital part in the world. They always buy it!"

Perplexed, I left the tavern to the sounds of Morzan's fingernails scrabbling on one of the glass windows. But, at least, I was free, and I could pursue my life at will.

And then…

"It's you again," said a terrifying, familiar voice. It was coming from an extremely diminutive, hooded figure, marching into Carvahall with a terrible sense of purpose. "Bitch."

"Oh dear sweet lord," I muttered to myself. What the hell was Vanir doing here?

"No, it's just me. Prepare to die, human piece of"- and I paraphrase the next bit- "donkey excrement." Vanir stopped widdershins to me and lowered his hood.

"Vanir, I really don't understand. Why are you intent on killing me?" I asked desperately. If I could keep my wits, I may just get out of this one.

"Well, bitch," he said, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, "it turns out that that lecherous old man really was staying in that tavern after all. I checked the bookings list." He said the last bit proudly, as if he had just handed in a particularly complex essay on Elven poetry.

"Oh, well done."

"What's that boy?"

"Nothing."

"Well, it had better be nothing. Anyhoo, that means that yew were lying. So prepare to die, mortal!" He raised his fists. "Go on, pathetic mortal! I'm ready for yew!"

I sighed, and simply pushed my hand, open palmed, into his face. This knocked him over backwards.

"Not fair!" he cried, as he tried to rise, only to receive my boot in his belly. It wasn't a terribly hard hit, really, but he just doubled over again. "Prepare to die, foolish mortal!" he wheezed, crawling towards me. If nothing would go wrong, thinks I, I could get away from him. By gods, I could do it!

Of course, this was when Brom and Morzan, still grappling madly, smashed through the tavern's wooden wall and onto the street beyond, each strangling the other and looking thoroughly bloodstained. Brom had a cut across his forehead, and Morzan appeared to have had several of his teeth pulled out with some pliars. Behind them came Selena, looking on helplessly. "Gentlemen, please," she said, flapping her hands impotently. "This can be sorted out most-" Her voice was drowned out when Brom, Morzan, or Brom and Morzan, managed to crash into a bullock, which was quite amicably until then waiting at a cart. The beast reared, and set off through the town square, and rolled right over Vanir, who was just getting to his feet at that point.

Needless to say, Carvahall descended into total chaos from that point on.

I managed to extricate myself from the mess via the complex method of running as quickly as I possibly could away from the town for as long as I could. This eventually took me to Teirm, where I settled down and sent for Helen. This, I hoped, would be the last of my absurd adventures with Brom.

I was quite wrong, of course.


	4. Our Journey's End ?

((Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, places etc.))

Thank you for your review, Duckweed. I fear that I haven't been getting many for intelligent comedy, however much better it is than many other works of fiction. This does indeed make the author sound arrogant, but no one said that I was not.

After due deliberation, I have not decided to be populist and do a Mary Sue Parody (although I have done a parody of a Mary Sue parody, however difficult that sounds.) This will, regrettably, be the last part of this chapter of the saga of Brom and Jeod (the next one going off to pastures new with David Eddings's Belgariad, which is not demonstrably impossible.) So, there will be more dry wit and insane situations, probably involving far more canon characters than before.

On a last note, I would like to say thank you to all my reviewers (who have, without exception, been extremely positive), and to those who have read, but did not review. I have actually turned to this in times of crisis and just laughed at parts of it in order to get an optimistic outlook (the scene involving Vanir for the first time is a particular personal favourite of mine), so it can't be all bad. And I am considering sending a link of this to the good Mister Paolini. If anyone knows the address by which he gets fan mail, please PM it to me. I hope he takes it in the correct spirit…

It was perhaps six months after the Carvahall affair that the paths of Jeod Longshanks esquire, now with an exceptionally nice house in Teirm, a profitable business in shipping, and a butler (by the name of Goole), and that of Brom, crossed again. It was a most unfortuitous meeting, and one which I will forever regret. If I had the talent of foresight, I would have probably made good my escape towards somewhere more pleasant- King Galbatorix's throne room, for instance- but I lacked it, so I was utterly oblivious to what was about to happen.

I roused myself at perhaps four in the morning, and as always received a cup of tea from Goole two minutes later. I have never quite understood exactly how he does it, and I don't intend to, but it really bucks up a fellow's day to have a good brew waiting for him before the rigours of the day began.

"Good morning, Goole," says I, taking the tea and sipping it gratefully.

"Good morning, sir."

"What's happening in this great world of ours, Goole?" I asked, trying to don my favourite black felt hat and drink tea at the same time. "Anyone killed or anything odd like that?"

"There has been some slight friction in Surda, sir, but nothing more significant." He delicately produced a hankerchief and began to mop the tea from my dressing gown.

"Thank you, Goole. A sad waste of a good brew, that."

"Indeed so, sir."

"Any letters, Goole?" I was now slowly making my way to the breakfast table.

"There was just one, sir. And an order of a turquoise scarf, sir." He said the last words with elegant distase.

"Oh? What did you do with that, Goole?"

"I sent it back, sir. They did not become you. It was my opinion, sir, that they were loud in the extreme."

Looking back now, I can see just how much control Goole had over my life. It was all for the best, I suppose. Coming into a new, vibrant and cosmopolitan city (and believe you me, after Dras Leona, any city is vibrant and cosmopolitan) was an experience which thoroughly agreed with me. I took to buying things in large amounts, more on basis of largeness of price tag than decency of taste, and it was therefore for the good of all human dignity that I had a man as steady as Goole for a butler.

"And what would be in this letter, Goole?" I took the proffered slice of toast, and bit into it gratefully.

"It is from one Mister Brom, sir." I froze at this, and the floor was once again stained with a piece of sustaining matter.

"Brom?" Oh dear god no, I thought to myself. After Carvahall, I had a strong desire never to see him again, and it had apparently proved to be mutual. Until this point, that is.

"Indeed so, sir. Shall I read it to you, sir?" Goole gave me an understanding look. He had been providing me with much assistance whilst I wrote my account of my journeys; ink, spare quills, that sort of thing, and he had picked up a fair bit.

"Oh do, Goole, do. And where's Helen, by the way?"

"She is currently possessed of a series of stomach cramps, sir. I fear that she will be suffering for about nine months." Well, I was as surprised as anyone when little Jeod Junior popped out, for I had no idea of the significance of the time. "Shall I begin, sir?"

I answered in the affirmative, so he began.

"Message reads: Jeod. Need to come over to your place. V. URGENT. Have been up to my tricks with Uncle A. Got something V. IMPORTANT. From Brom." He closed the envelope. "That is all, sir, although it includes several stains of mud, among other sundry materials.

"Right. Thank you, Goole." I returned to the toast. At least, I told myself, he would only be stopping for a short visit, although exactly who or what Uncle A was baffled me. "That would be all. Could you prepare a few drinks for when he arrives?" They were quite often lamentably necessary when he turned up.

"Very good, sir." And with that, Goole left the room.

Some years ago, the Royal College of Magic created a pamphlet entitled "Do It Yourself Witchcraft." This delightful little article informed the reader about the basics of brewing simple potions and suchlike, for various different, but all equally useless, things; if I may name a personal favourite, the De-Toadification Brew is a particularly pointless one. Despite its many shortcomings, it had a brief but devoted vogue with my father. This is most probably due to the lack of physical effort involved with it; rather than taking up an extremely hard to master, and potentially life threatening art, all my dear father had to do was saunter over to the local herbalist, who just happened to be possessed of a certain amount of pulchritude which middle aged to elderly men appreciate all too much, spend a few crowns on some pleasant smelling herbs, and spend the afternoon mixing them together in the back garden.

As a result of my father's adamant refusal to read any form of instruction manual beyond the first page, this resulted in a certain amount of self damage. In taverns, for example, he may be tucking into fine ale with beef stew, and then suddenly turn purple and collapse, gurgling, on the floor, twitching violently. As you can well imagine, this caused quite a spectacle. Merchants would look at him over the tops of their spectacles. Peasants would gawp and point, even attempting to attack his comatose form with implements of cutlery. Barmaids would watch in a calculating sort of way, as if trying to dredge up a part of their training that they had long considered useless. Then, after a few minutes, father would sit up, dust himself down, notice the watching crowds, and then smile amiably and begin to give a description of the principles behind Witchcraft. "It's the fuel of the future, you know," he would conclude brightly, before returning to his meal. My father was curiously immune to embarrassment, which was fine by me: I had enough myself for me, him, the occupants of the tavern, all of Dras Leona, and approximately eighty five per cent of the Alagesian land mass.

I only mention this because of the startling resemblance that Brom had to my father on the fateful night priorly mentioned.

He left his food virtually untouched, instead preferring to drink himself into a stupor, only accompanied by him suddenly jerking to his feet, staring hard at the door, and then sitting down again. At first, this was in response to any form of stimulus. Later on, I suspect that it was the three bottles of Belatonan.

"So, Brom," I would say, "excuse me for asking, but exactly what has brought you to my humble abode?" or words to that effect; I got steadily less polite as the evening wore on.

"Dear Gods!" he cried, diving off the chair with a loud crash. "Did you just hear that?" He scrabbled for his sword.

"No."

"Well, it was probably nothing." He would then climb onto his chair, smiling ruefully at Goole as the next course was brought in. "Sorry about that, old man. Just the nerves." He smiled amiably up at Goole. Helen sighed, apparently recovered from her cramps.

"Another glass of Belatonan, sir?"

"Yep."

"Very good, sir."

And so on.

Finally, when the last dish was cleared away, Brom decided to tell all. "Right, all," he said, rubbing his hands a trifle unsteadily, "I've decided to tell all."

"Oh good," says I. Helen nodded. There was a pause.

"So, Brom," I said a trifle delicately, "what exactly have you been up to?"

"Well," said he, "its quite simple really. I- holy shit, did you just hear that?" He dived off the chair again. I looked at Helen and shrugged helplessly.

"Just the nerves?" I asked, preparing the brandy bottle for another tot to be poured out.

"Oh no, no," Brom said. He crawled onto the chair again. "Now," he said, "as you may have noticed, I have been rather unsteady the evening. Jittery, perhaps. Jumping at noises, even."

Neither of us civilized observers deigned to comment.

"Well, the reason for this is quite simple." Brom paused for effect, and then to do a strange movement that was almost diving off a chair at the sound of creaking floorboards, but was stopped at the last moment. "I am now a fugitive of the Empire."

"Brom," I said patiently, "you already were a fugitive of the Empire."

"Well, now I'm on its number one goddamned wanted list!"

"Again," I went on, cursing his deteriorating memory, "you have been known to be-"

"The truth is, my dear Joed, is that I have stolen a dragon egg." He crossed his arms, and gave a defiant look.

We were both speechless for a moment. "And exactly," I replied tentatively, "what makes you think that we are going to help you here?"

"Well," Brom replied after another long, shaken pause, "I thought that our long bond of friendship forged through shared danger would give you the courage to take me in."

I stood up to get my coat.

"That and I went under your name." I froze.

"Brom," I said, a slow anger rising, "why the hell did you use MY name?" I prepared to make a dash for the rapier cupboard. I could sense Helen preparing the tirade she normally used for myself coming home after dark smelling oddly of liquefied barley.

"Well," Brom said in a matter of fact tone, "I was advised to use it because I was informed that you had written something in the past about the Imperial Castle in Uru'baen."

"Brom," I said, keeping voice level by a supreme effort, "I did work experience there as a tour guide, telling people to go left past the torture dungeons to find the latrines."

"And," he went on unruffled, "I was paired with someone who knew you in the past. So I kind of used your name to sign forms, be generally known, and suchlike. Nothing too major. Apart from the death warrant, I suppose. And the few hundred apples I bought with your bank account as a distraction. Oh, and quite possibly that war galley I had outfitted. But, well," he finished, watching thunder clouds march on to my face, "that makes you the only person to survive an Imperial decapitation!"

"So, in sum," I said, fists balled, "you made me a wanted criminal, spent all my money- and why the hell did you outfit a war galley? Uru'baen is landlocked!"

In answer, Brom dived off the chair again.

"So what are we going to do now?" Helen asked, head in hands, forestalling my anguished outburst.

"Well, flee of course," said Brom, clambering to his feet. "Run. Run like the wind. Like the- well, pretty damned quickly. All four of us-including that man of yours, Goole. We aren't safe here, unless we want to face some kind of Imperial Inquisition."

We all looked out of the windows expectantly. No comic actors were found galloping down the street, so we turned back to the gloomy conversation. "Now, don't worry," Brom said. "I've got this all worked out. We hire a ship- the _Seadog_, she's called- and we sail- now, this is the really clever part- to Aloria!"

"Never heard of it," says I. I rang the bell.

"You called, sir?" Goole asked as he sidled in. I briefly updated him on the proceedings. He nodded sympathetically. "I have taken the liberty, sir, of packing for the occasion. And as for Aloria, I believe that it is a strange region on another continent." I had to admit, it did sound like a fairly secure place to go.

"Oh, it will be!" Brom said. "The ship leaves at twelve. We must dash soon, or we'll miss it!"

If I had known what was coming next, I would probably have thrown myself to the Secret Police right then. But, alas, I was young and foolish. After packing swiftly, our merry band set off to board the _Seadog_.

An interesting after note is that I have recently discovered the identity of Brom's accomplice. After a long bout of drinking, I asked him. He smiled evilly.

"Well," he said, "last time I saw her, Angela was backed up against a wall surrounded by Imperial Guardsmen, spears ready." We both grinned at that. "There was no getting out of that one for her!" Brom cheered, before turning round, looking out of the window, and seeing the herbalist's shop for the first time.

THE END… FOR NOW.


End file.
